


Will

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-22
Updated: 2011-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things Danny does for love that are easy, and other things that make him almost lose his mind.</p><p>(A stand alone: no spoilers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will

**Author's Note:**

> with grateful thanks to dogeared for the beta

Being a grown-up sucked, and Danny was going to figure out who the hell he complained to, fill that form out in triplicate, submit it with a long personal statement, and demand some sort of recompense for all the hours he'd spent manfully sizing up his responsibilities that evening instead of sprawling on the couch, nursing a beer. It was late, too fucking late, and he had to be up in five, six hours, tops, and still had to drive back to Steve's place – shit, no, to _their_ place – and he hated everything, the too-warm air, the way the button on his key fob didn't work half the time, the way the door to his car wouldn't open, because wasn't that just the way his life went?

He waved an absent hand over his shoulder – he knew Rachel was watching, where'd she pick up that habit, her grandma? Like he was going to get mugged in her driveway – manhandled the door, got in the car, turned the keys and gunned the engine. The radio kicked into gear, some sort of light rock, '70s, piece-of-shit McGarrett choice, and Danny swore as the gates to Rachel's home swung open, as he pulled out onto the road. He jabbed at the dial, came up with something ear-splitting, a country station (country, what the ever-loving fuck), NPR, two stations of vague noise that was probably the most popular shit on the planet, settled on the first station that didn't make him want to steer his car clean into the ocean.

Thing was, while he loved his daughter – loved her in ways that chewed up all his words, spat them out and stomped on them, they were so inadequate – there were things he did for love that were easy, like learning to braid her hair, or teaching her to hit her first baseball, or listening to her talk about _Charlotte's Web_ when he hadn't the first fucking clue who Wilbur was or why he stealing thirty minutes of Danny's life. But for all of those things, the tea parties, the slip-and-slide, the movies past bedtime, there were the things he did for love that made him come close to losing his mind.

Like writing a will.

With his ex-wife.

For hours.

It was the responsible thing, the good thing, the right thing to do, he got that, to take all the hundreds of documents the lawyers had given them, to make choices about this and that. But it didn't make it easy. They had to choose who'd raise Grace if both of them died, and they had to figure out how to make sure she got to college, and that whatever they had that was meaningful – the box of photos he'd stuck in the attic at Steve's place; the baseball jersey he'd bought Rachel their first time at Yankee Stadium; the awful, ugly china Rachel's grandma had sent them when they got hitched that was good for hours of mockery if nothing else – went to her, wasn't thrown out by people who didn't know what it meant, what the stories were. And all goddamn night they'd checked boxes and reworded sentences and gone back and forth over money and stocks and pension accounts, and every last bit of it had shouted _you might never see your little girl grow up._

When Danny pulled in at Steve's place, tucked the Camaro behind the truck, he glanced at the dash before he turned off the ignition – 1:17am; even Super SEAL would be asleep by now. He closed his eyes, sat for a minute, tried to summon up a little satisfaction at having done what was right, but his thoughts raced back to Gracie, orphaned, alone in the world, meeting every milestone without Danny beaming proudly as she graduated, as she picked out a car, made a home, who knew, maybe found someone she loved the way he'd loved Rachel, the way he loved Steve – that he might never meet that person made him want to pound the shit out of his car, break some glass, a couple bones, but he was smarter than that, he knew he was, and there was beer inside, and Steve, and beer.

The beer was in the kitchen, but Danny headed right upstairs, hovered in the doorway of the bedroom, watched Steve sacked out on his stomach, arm around a pillow like usual. He shucked his tie, toed off his shoes, padded to the bathroom and only then turned on a light, winced at the shadows under his eyes, thought briefly about checking for the grey hair he was sure he'd gained that evening, flipped himself off for being a melodramatic fuck, peeled off his clothes, took a leak. It felt good to wash his face, to scrub the rank taste of tamped-down fear out of his mouth, and he left his clothes on the floor, because fuck it, he was a grown up, and this was the one perk, that he didn't have to pick up after himself if he didn't want to. He turned out the light before he went back in the bedroom. Steve was probably half-awake already, but that wasn’t the point; he wasn't going to be the thoughtless bastard who rammed that point home with a 120 watt bulb.

"How'd it go?" Steve mumbled as Danny sat on the edge of the bed, took off his watch, put it on the nightstand.

Danny's guts clenched, because what kind of question was that? He shrugged, jaw tensing then releasing, and curled up on his side, pulling at the sheets. "Go back to sleep."

Steve grumbled, shifted with him, and the next thing Danny knew he was pulled squarely into Steve's arms, Steve flush against his back, big spoon to Danny's little, and oh, it was fucking _on_.

"Fuck _off_ , McGarrett," he muttered, squirming, trying to leverage Steve's hand from where it was pressed against his stomach. "I'm not your fucking teddy bear." And if his eyes were hot, bright, stinging, well it had been a day, all right, and the last thing he needed was a limpet to welcome him home.

But Steve didn't budge, because he was a fucking asshole, just rubbed his nose across the nape of Danny's neck, whispered, "Shhhhhhhhh," like what, like Danny was a horse gotten spooked, a dog needing just the right tone of voice? That the gesture, the sound, made him want to turn his face into the pillow and give unhappy, noisy, gut-wrenching vent to all the grief and disappointment and fear he felt, well fuck everything, fuck _everything_. He twisted again, but Steve's hold was implacable.

"I hated it, all right?" he managed around the lump in his throat, and Steve squeezed him a little, which was just so unfair.

"S'okay," Steve murmured.

And goddamnit, Danny believed him – could at least put his faith in Steve when everything else had gone to hell, and he sagged against him, admitted he kind of needed this, wanted it, could maybe lose himself in it until the first wash of bitterness had passed. He turned over, pushed as close as he could get, and Steve just stayed right there, strong and steady, ran a hand down his back. "You sure?" Danny asked, exhausted, and he was asking a hundred things he couldn't put into words better than that, but he figured Steve would work it out.

Steve brushed his lips across Danny's forehead. "Yeah," he said softly, and he reached to tug the sheets back up over them both, yawned as Danny tucked in closer. "Okay?"

Danny closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, tucked his fingers into the back of Steve's shorts. "I guess," he admitted mulishly, and he felt Steve laugh softly, felt another kiss, felt the rise and fall of Steve's even breathing, felt comforted, felt at home.


End file.
